


Seen-But-Not-Observed

by Lerry_Hazel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Mary Morstan, Fix-It, M/M, only SIP actually happened, season 3 never happened, season 4 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18101960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lerry_Hazel/pseuds/Lerry_Hazel
Summary: All those times John Watson should have guessed about Mystrade, plus the time he finally found out.





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Basicly, a set of drabbles that only pretends to have a plot.  
> Also, this is a Not-Canon-Compliant AU, but still a work of fanfiction, which means that  
> a) I own nothing,  
> and,  
> b) that, while I liberally use pieces of both BBC and ACD canon, I by no means imply that the original authors meant it that way.  
> Finally, I’ve come to absolutely despise the show’s version of Dr. Watson. I don’t think the indignation bled into the fic in any substantial way, but, just so you know.

*****

******

*******

In hindsight, John should have known from the very first time.

Because he might still be reeling from the ‘Mummy’ comment, too busy gaping like a fish to start berating Sherlock for letting him believe all that 'archenemy' nonsense, but it also means he can't stop staring after the supposed ‘Consulting Criminal’ turned fussy older brother. Who, having apparently assured himself of his sibling's continued well-being via trading customary insults, storms off, – not back to his posh car but deeper into the crime scene, where the Yarders are still bustling around the taxi driver's dead body. The silver-headed DI meets him halfway, and Mycroft (Sherlock and Mycroft, seriously?) promptly loses his ‘I don't care if you choose to ingest potentially toxic substances, but must you upset Mummy?’ nonchalance and starts ranting. The DI (Lestrade, was it?) listens with a soft smile, and the smile doesn't say ‘thanks god I won't be kidnapped to an abandoned warehouse where no one will find my body’. It says ‘thanks god I don't have to give him the bad news’ and ‘it's over now’, and ‘it's gonna be OK’.

Meanwhile, Sherlock delivers his one last jab about starting wars and bad traffic, and before John is literally dragged away he sees Mycroft brace himself for a strike, like a poked snake. But Lestrade unceremoniously drops his hand (completed with ugly, grayish purple, police-issue, god-knows-where-it's-been rubber glove) right on Mycroft's undoubtedly very expensive coat sleeve, and the British Government obediently relaxes back against the panda he's been leaning on.

*****

******

*******

******

*****

The second time is not so much a specific occasion, but a sum of things John has, apparently, ‘seen but not observed’ over time.

People who find themselves unwillingly subjected to Sherlock's ‘deductions’ tend to react with either frantic denial or blatant anger. Lestrade (much as John would like to consider himself the only one) is an exception. Every time Sherlock deems it necessary to inform the DI that he has, once again, been cheated on with a PE teacher, exchanged for a piece of cake or eagerly left across the ocean, Lestrade smiles indulgently, as if humoring a particularly dense child in a knock-knock game, and dutifully asks if it was his shoe laces or his coat buttons that gave him away this time.

John still doesn't know how Sherlock manages to determine the state of Lestrade’s marriage from the way the DI fails to color-coordinate his shirt and socks. But as his attention gets directed there again and again, even John can't help noticing that, while Lestrade is never blatantly overdressed like the Holmes brothers are – his clothes seem, in fact, to be on the cheap side to accommodate possible dumpster-diving, his shoes worn out from not slacking off legwork, – his ties and belts and scarves and gloves and watch are all subtly luxurious: not like he got a pricy gift on a big anniversary and shows it off on special occasions, but like someone with finer and more expensive taste strives to touch him everywhere and leave a mark. Which in itself doesn’t necessarily spell ‘Mycroft Holmes’, but, combined with some other signs…

 

*******

There was, for instance, the time the three of them had to visit the infamous Diogenes Club, because the investigation took them to some not really secret, but still government-run lab, and Sherlock was refusing to go without John while Lestrade was refusing to let the two of them out of his sight, just in case it was a distraction for get in the facility without police supervision.

As they were approaching the imposing Victorian mansion, John was secretly glad not to be the only representative of “unwashed masses” about to invade the bastion of highly-privileged environment Mycroft inhabited and Sherlock at least knew how to navigate. However, the reality didn’t quite correspond with John’s expectations. The stuff, no less posh than the establishment they were employed by, did not, indeed, extend the same brand of politeness to all three intruders, but, where John himself was, unsurprisingly, politely ignored, it was Lestrade who was treated with true respect, while Sherlock got the same subtle stink-eye he got in the Yard, the one that said ‘Oh, how we would like to punch you, but, unfortunately, we know who your brother is”.

It was also Lestrade, and not Sherlock, who was allowed to pop into Mycroft’s office to retrieve John’s temporary credentials. And. as they were waiting in the unwelcoming lobby, which didn’t have even plastic chairs (or, considering the place’s general style, a wooden bench), but did have a dozen portraits of founding members staring disapprovingly from the walls (one of said members looking suspiciously like a very fat Mycroft in a fin-de-siècle suite), John could see Sherlock was just itching to make another comment about his brother’s diet and the DI’s marital status; but, apparently, he knew what the punishment for speaking inside the club was: and was weary enough not to risk it.

*******

******

*****


	2. Origins, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mocking of so-called ‘investigation’ from TGG ahead; if you consider it sacrilegious or something, read at your own risk ;-P

*****

******

*******

John made the mistake of seeking Sherlock’s approval of his ‘ridiculously romanticized’ tales of their exploits exactly once before letting the detective go back to pretending he didn’t know about them. He is, therefore, understandably surprised when Sherlock barges in and shoves his newly posted story opened on his (his, not Sherlock’s!) phone directly under his nose.

“That is absolutely unacceptable!”

“Yes,” John replies calmly, knowing anger will do him no good, “we’ve talked about that: you can’t just take my things whenever you please.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it!”

“Yes, we’ve talked about it as well. No one cares about 245 types of cigarette ash. People want an adventure.”

“And that’s why I let you,” Sherlock proceeds, ignoring John’s indignant gasp, “put your rose-tinted sugarcoating on the solid facts of my investigations. But that is a completely different matter – that is outright lies!”

“Well, the disappearance of that painting was on the news. We could use the publicity to bring in actual paying clients!”

“For a giant contract killer named Golem, maybe. How do you imagine a museum curator would even know to hire one?”

“I couldn’t exactly write you had to take the case in order to have the vandalism charges you’d brought upon me dropped. Or that it took you all of four seconds to figure out the curator paid the same security guard who first suspected the fraud to destroy the painting.”

“And so you had me identify his body as that of a security guard by the muscles of his arse and back he was, according to your very detailed description, lying on. And then I somehow find an extra star on a disappeared painting, after you had repeatedly and gleefully informed your readers my knowledge of astronomy is non-existent.”

“I had you overcome your limitations in the face of mortal danger. Surely beats the guy losing his cool and confessing to Lestrade who wasn’t even on the case and only came to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s another thing. You used to at least try to explain how the science of deduction works. Now you just make it look like I have a superpower.”

“You were born with a unique ability you use to help people. Sounds pretty much like a superpower to me,” John smirks in response.

“Much as it pains me to admit it, my abilities are not unique. And, being regularly subjected to the same treatment from a different source, you, of all people, should know it.”

“No way. Mycroft? He does seem to know a hell of a lot about me, but he is always reading from a folder.”

“Well, I suppose in his line of work it pays to appear to be constantly watching, rather than easily reading one’s opponent, but – “

“Are you telling me he can also do all those wonderful things you can?”

“No!” Sherlock snaps irritably, “Once again, it is not a superpower! I had to research and learn tremendous amount of information about weapons, traces and dead bodies that lets me read the crime scene. And I never bothered to memorise all those pointless traditions, cultural references and social clues my brother has been gathering to facilitate communication with idiots since primary school.”

“I thought you were home-schooled.”

“I was. But my brother had to navigate the horrors of public education, before my first attempt to socialize within my age group proved disastrous and Mummy decided Mycroft too had to stay at home and help watch me.”

“What could possibly – you know what, never mind. So, when did you decide the skills that helped Mycroft infiltrate polite society were better used solving crimes?”

“When Mummy failed to realise why being away at Uni made Mycroft unavailable to babysit at her request. And NPPF Candidate Handbook proved slightly less mind-numbing than Political Economy of Resource Management.”

John means to ask what NPPF stands for, but Sherlock makes a show of guessing his password to delete the story he had worked so hard on, making it a matter of principle not to talk to the insufferable Consulting Detective for the next two days.

*******

******

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NPPF is National Police Promotion Framework. Although I have no idea whether the term existed back when Lestrade would have taken the exam. 
> 
> ‘John A. Dixon. Environment and Economic Growth. The Political Economy of Resource Management in ASEAN’. No idea what it is about, just needed an impressive title ;-)


	3. Injuries

*****

******

*******

They are standing right outside Baskerville security perimeter watching a mine go off. The resulting explosion makes sure there is not enough of Dr. Frankland left to identify, and John vaguely notes that, in terms of literature, it makes a good ending: a maybe-hallucinated giant dog would be a great plot twist but a poor murder weapon to present at court. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t hurry to sharpen his metaphorical quill either, Baskerville being a super-secret government facility and all. Maybe if he made it about one mad scientist… with some traditional motive like love or money… put it in historical settings and switched a minefield to, say, a swamp… Yes, he could probably get away with a giant dog, if not hallucinogenic gas…

“Whom are you calling?”

Sherlock’s sharp cry effectively cuts off the flight of his inspiration and John reflectively checks his hand for a mobile he is not, of course, holding.

“Your brother,” the actual culprit replies tersely.

It’s strange how Lestrade never uses Mycroft’s name or surname. John would call it impersonal, except he himself calls the elder Holmes ‘Mycroft’ precisely not to acknowledge the connection Lestrade is so intent to remind Sherlock about.  

“Why? He probably already knows far more about the matter than we’ve managed to discover. And he wouldn’t have sent you here if he could do something about it from his office.”

“Because,” Lestrade hisses, “he is about to be informed about the mine being activated; and I don’t want him to wonder if we have been the ones to do it.”

Well, isn’t ‘we’ a little presumptuous? John is pretty sure Mycroft Holmes is not particularly invested in a humble ex-army doctor’s well-being, and Lestrade, if Sherlock is to be believed, has never even been kidnapped and offered money to spy on the 'British Government’s' troublesome sibling. John considers making a sarcastic remark, but he is not sure heavily armed guards currently surrounding them would appreciate it.

 

*****

******

*******

******

*****

 

John is too busy chasing after Sherlock, who is too eager to prove his theory about a rare blue gemstone hidden inside a stuffed goose, to notice the commotion outside. In fact, he is still a little dazed from all those hours spent running around London tracking the remnants of the antique toy collection James Ryder’s elderly aunt put on e-bay to finance her move to a nursery home while her only nephew was serving his sentence. So, as they emerge from little Jennie Horner’s thankfully empty bedroom, plushy bird mercilessly gutted and the precious carbuncle retrieved, it takes him a few seconds to process Donovan standing menacingly over Ryder’s limp form sprawled on the ground, Anderson bagging a bloodied knife and Lestrade awkwardly holding his arm away from his body. Meanwhile, Sherlock unceremoniously shoves both the gutted toy and the priceless carbuncle into his blogger's hands, rushes to the DI's side and ripps away three layers of fabric the above-mentioned knife has, apparently, cut through.

“Oh, that's not good,” Sherlock mutters, as he produces a handkerchief, somehow pristine white despite all those disgusting things he keeps in his pockets, and carefully presses it to the rather long and rather copiously bleeding laceration.

“Indeed,” Lestrade replies, somehow managing to simultaneously smile and wince in pain. “If I were you, I would get out of here before your brother arrives.”

Sherlock actually shudders and snaps his fingers impatiently, prompting a scowling Anderson to produce separate evidence bags for the toy and the stone. Then he grabs John's now free hand and starts to bodily drag him away just as the familiar black car appears from around the corner.

“What the hell was that? Since when are we afraid of Mycroft?” John inquires once they've managed to leave the crime scene a few blocks behind.

“Well, I, for one, don't fancy being chewed on by an angry angelfish,” Sherlock replies cryptically. “Taxi!”

And John means to google what's so special about angelfish compared to other animals that would make a more logical comparison to Mycroft, but Baker Street greets them with unrelenting stink of Sherlock's recent experiment, and the mystery is of animal kingdom slips John's mind.

*******

******

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If ‘animalwised.com’ is to be believed, Angelsifh (well, French Angelfish, aka Pomacanthus paru) are notable for being fiercely protective of their mates, rather than their young.


	4. Personae

*****

******

*******

 

John should be happy both he and Sarah came out of being used as a prop in a deadly performance no worse to wear, but a dead circus mistress and a nine-million hair pin essentially lifted from Amanda Hawthorn leave him with very little to show Sebastian Wilkes for the check he has already pocketed. So he skips half of his shift and follows Sherlock to NSY on the off chance they might be let back on the case. Which doesn’t seem very likely, given that Dimmock is not so much astounded by ‘the power of deduction’ as frustrated that a case which could have earned him a promotion if handled properly now consists of a bunch of dead contortionists, a secretary genuinely unaware of her lover's involvement with organized crime and not even in possession of stolen property anymore, – and, of course, Sarah Sawyer, who mostly remembers her kidnappers being majorly pissed at Sherlock Holmes. In other words, Dimmock is not particularly eager to exchange information, and not even a promise to actually translate any Chinese documents gathered as evidence, rather than have a look and run off, can persuade him.

“Look, Holmes, I’m sorry,” he says with a smirk that clearly states he is really not, “but we need to do it by the book. Anyway, it’s not just a weird murder case anymore, it’s huge and international, and other departments got involved. Lestrade is handling the ‘co-operation’ shit, and he’s also taking care of the translation. Says he knows a guy with all the relevant credentials.”

Judging by the look of indignant disgust of Sherlock’s face, he knows ‘the guy’ too.

*******

Which is probably why they are currently breaking into an honest-to-god manor tucked unobtrusively right into historical centre of London. Sherlock’s reassurance that ‘it is not breaking in if we have a key’ is short-lived, as the key only opens an antique-looking mailbox concealing the most sophisticated security system. Sherlock has already had to offer both a palm scan and a retina scan, enter a fifteen-digit code, and is currently pronouncing a password in a language so peculiar it must be Sanskrit – or maybe Tagalog – and definitely shouldn’t end with –

“Oops!” the world’s only Consulting Detective squawks unaristocratically, taking a step away and covering his mouth and nose with his trademark scarf. John hastily follows – a second too late: the security system spits out a cloud of obnoxiously stinky gas and he promptly loses consciousness.

*******

John comes round lying on an obscenely comfortable coach in a luxuriously decorated living-room, to be greeted by Sherlock’s familiar whine:

“But it was my case! I wanted to go through with it!”

“We have talked about this, brother mine,’ a no less familiar tired voice answers; and there is indeed Mycroft Holmes sitting across the coffee table, even if his normally rigid posture is melted against the overstuffed armchair, his jacket and tie discarded somewhere, his shirt sleeves rolled up and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses is perched on his substantial nose. “Organized crime is not a game of chess. Every piece is replaceable and interchangeable. You take them down all at once or not at all.”

“But I could – “

“You are not going to infiltrate a Chinese smuggling ring two weeks before your mother’s birthday!” yet another familiar voice intervenes, as DI Lestrade suddenly invades John’s field of vision, wearing faded jeans and t-shirt and carrying a tea-tray.

“Especially as your Cantonese leaves much to be desired,” Mycroft nods in agreement, taking another document out of the smaller pile lying in front of him and meticulously signing it – with his left hand; when he transfers it to the bigger pile, the document has ‘Edward M. Musgrave, Master of Linguistics and Oriental Studies’ scribbled messily but legibly at the bottom. “However, there is that small matter at the embassy,” he continues, taking yet another document out of the pile and blindly reaching for the plate of biscuits Lestrade pushes in his direction.

‘Oh, no!” Sherlock bellows, snatching the entire plate for himself, “If you are so keen on being like a cow, you might just as well stick to lettuce!”

Mycroft visibly swallows his reaction, ready to keep speaking as if nothing has happened, but is interrupted by Lestrade, who puts a tea cup back on the tray with a pointed bang and very calmly says: “Out.”

“You gave him my case!”

“Out,” Lestrade repeats, prying the biscuit plate off Sherlock’s hands and putting it back within Mycroft’s easy reach.

John expects an argument, or at least a token protest about this not being Lestrade’s house, but Sherlock just scoffs and strides out of the room, so his loyal blogger has no choice but to follow.

*******

******

*****


	5. Origins, part 2

*****

******

*******

 

Three days after Chinese-smugglers-and-biscuits fiasco Sherlock is not yet ‘Bored!' in the worst sense this word can acquire in relation to him, but if John has to smell the outcome of his ongoing ‘entertainment’ for much longer, he won't be responsible for his actions.

“That's it! I'm calling Greg!”

“Who?” Sherlock asks distractedly, pouring the content of the beaker that has been stinking to high heaven since ass o'clock in the morning, yep, right into John's new favorite mug.

“Lestrade! Stop being an asshole, Sherlock, you need a case.”

“It won't work,” Sherlock scoffs, adding a few drops of another stinky concoction and pouring the mixture down the drain when it fails to do anything spectacular. “He won't budge unless something truly serious happens. Or Mycroft asks him.”

“Then call Mycroft!”

“No use. Lestrade is the strict parent. Mycroft will only interfere if he believes I'm getting too close to the edge.”

“Then at least accept the embassy case!”

“No,” Sherlock snaps, and goes on to fill in his lab journal, unconcerned of the resulting oppressive silence.

“Fine, I'll ask,” John gives in. “Why?”

Sherlock lets out a very dramatic sigh.

“Firstly, because my meddlesome sibling already controls everything I do, and I would like to at least maintain control over what I don't do. Secondly, the embassy is in Angola. You need vaccinations to get into the country, and any matter that can wait that long can't be very exciting. And finally, the ambassador is Mycroft's former minion who used to babysit me when the boarding school disaster happened and I had to go live in Laos. And he agreed to help me sneak a university application past Mycroft’s watchful eye only when I promised he would never have to see me again."

*****

******

*******

******

*****

The boarding school disaster came out quite unexpectedly a few months prior.

Sherlock considers it his own special brand of gentlemanry to rebound Molly’s awkward advances as viciously as possible. No one is, therefore, surprised, when he takes one look at her newly-acquired mildly popular actor of a boyfriend she is blatantly trying to show off, and smugly announces:

“Gay!”

The boyfriend, also unsurprisingly, promptly loses his ‘charming, if a little shy’ persona and starts shrieking, although not the usual ‘That’s not true! or ‘How do you know?’, but something about a moron called Sebastian, who has been kicked out of the army, which is somehow ‘that bloody Holmes’ fault’. What is really surprising, however, is that Sherlock, instead of gleefully explaining why that is definitely true and how exactly he knows it, starts shrieking right back. He keeps ranting even after being bodily dragged out of the room and shoved into a taxi, and little by little John manages to piece the story together.

 

*******

Apparently, when Mycroft graduated from Uni and got his first assignment abroad, Mummy decided Sherlock was too much trouble and sent him off to boarding school along with a generous enough donation to make sure he couldn’t be kicked out no matter what. Richard Brook, ‘supposedly attractive, though I, personally, never saw the appeal’, and ‘mildly intelligent’ (which was Holmesian for ‘bloody genius’) had been working tirelessly for years to establish himself as the King of the School, and understandably found Sherlock’s effortlessly good looks and super-brain threatening.

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s immediate attempts to get himself expelled, combined with his overall stellar personality and new-found passion for ‘the science of deduction’, hadn’t won him any allies. Therefore, the teachers had no trouble believing when Brook first taught other boys to blame their misdeeds on Sherlock and then proceeded to frame the future Consulting Detective for his own mayhem on a larger and larger scale. The Headmaster, mindful of possible future donations and the Holmes family considerable influence, dutifully pretended nothing unusual was happening, leaving the teachers to execute their own brand of ‘justice’, where they would use the tiniest excuse to bring his marks down and sometimes even turned a blind eye as the objects of his recent 'deductions' ganged on him, – all to teach ‘that awful Holmes boy’ that he was not above the rules.

It didn’t help matters that Sherlock was determined not to be ‘a baby who runs whining to his big brother’, so it took Brook getting overconfident and trying something outside of school to bring the matter to the attention of parents and guardians – after the police had got involved.

 

*******

The Consulting Detective doesn’t go into detail, but for some reason John’s imagination supplies a very clear image of a uniform-clad Lestrade handing baby Sherlock over to thunderous Mycroft, – never mind that at that point Sherlock would have been at least fifteen, and – John can’t believe he actually has no idea when his friend first met the DI, but decides it’s a little late to ask.

*******

******

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t remember where I read that ‘Moriarty’ was the name of someone who bullied Conan Doyle at school, and, therefore, can’t be sure it’s true, but my imagination decided to run wild in that direction anyway.  
> ***  
> And, sorry, but no chapter for you tomorrow, as there is a long and exciting day in RL waiting for me. Hopefully, I’ll get back on track on Tuesday, but no promises ;-P


	6. Reichenbach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but the show I went to see on Monday tuned out rather silly, so I had to thoroughly EWW it in my blog. :-P 
> 
> ***
> 
> Token WARNING for presumed character death, ha-ha.   
> ACTUAL WARNING for implied drug abuse; also, all pretense of canon-compliancy stops here.

*****

******

*******

And then Sherlock goes off and dies.

Well, first he shows up at the clinic acting all twitchy and agitated, rambling about a Professor Moriarty, who ‘sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web’ and is somehow responsible for every second crime committed in Britain. By that time the Detective has been getting increasingly restless for days, so John probably should have wondered; but Sherlock being restless is nothing new, and between Mycroft whisking his brother away to do something Dr. Watson was not allowed to know about somewhere Dr. Watson was not allowed to follow and John himself trying (for all the good it did him) to spend more time with his once again ex-girlfriend, the good doctor is positively itching for an adventure. He, therefore, welcomes a chance to abandon an evening of treating countless running noses for a wild goose chase around London, and it doesn’t occur to him that something weird is going on until they break into a perfectly ordinary block of flats and Sherlock gleefully points a gun (John’s own gun) at Richard Brook’s head.

The ludicrous picture snaps into focus, and John’s only excuse for not catching up sooner is that Brook’s breakthrough role in ‘The Final Problem’ is only listed as ‘James Moriarty’ in the credits, while the actual characters of the trashy late-night drama about a disgraced mathematician turned criminal mastermind tend to refer to him as simply ‘the Professor’; and the thing about ambassador’s children and poisonous sweets Sherlock is so passionately narrating was a cliffhanger meant to be resolved after current mid-season break.

Meanwhile, Brook seems to have come to a similar conclusion, because his expression promptly goes from confused to furious, and he starts shrieking right at Sherlock’s face, unconcerned of the height difference he literally has to jump to compensate for, – or of the gun he doesn’t care (or, more likely, doesn’t realise) is real:

“What the fuck, Holmes, did the drugs rot the sad remnants of your brain? This time I’m getting you arrested for sure, just watch me! Professor Moriarty is a fictional character, you stupid pothead, and I’ve never – ever – killed – any – kids!”

“Carl Powers would beg to disagree,” a familiar voice booms from behind them, causing Sherlock to smile a wide drunk smile and Brook to visibly shrink away.

“You can’t prove anything!” the apparently-not-criminal-mastermind exclaims with false bravado. “The case wasn’t even opened!”

“That’s why I’m not obligated to keep it secret,” Lestrade smiles maliciously, “and won't the producers of that children’s show you are hoping to host be thrilled if I let it slip in front of an eager reporter that their rising star almost became a suspect in his classmate’s murder. Sherlock, do you have your list?”

 

*******

By the time they get back to Lestrade’s car, the DI has to support most of Sherlock’s weight and looks murderous.

“Fuck you, Watson,” he hisses, as he throws John the keys and goes on to arrange Sherlock at the backseat. “I knew you had no common sense when flirting with danger, but aren’t you a bloody doctor?”

Sherlock never fails to mock his brother’s non-existent obesity; how was John to know the retaliatory substance-abuse jabs were not equally unfounded?

*******

It takes ages to find parking space near the posh private hospital John didn’t even know existed, and, when he finally reaches the correct floor, Lestrade is in the far corner, texting frantically, while Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Luckily, the blond doe-eyed nurse at the front desk seems to recognize John, – but before she manages to tell him anything useful, Mike Stamford, of all people, suddenly appears out of nowhere.

“What the hell, Morstan? Did you even ask for his ID?”

“That’s Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ blogger, everybody knows that,” Nurse Morstan huffs.

“I don’t care if he’s the Queen,” Mike snaps back. “Immediate family only,” – and he turns to Lestrade inquiringly.

“On his way,” the latter sighs, “but it’s gonna take a while.”

“Plan B it is, then” Mike nods tersely, “Come on, I’ll help you with the papers.”

And, taking Lestrade’s sleeve, he literally leads the DI away through ‘staff only’ door, leaving a dumfounded John standing in the waiting room.

“Want to talk about it?” the blond nurse asks with a hesitant smile.

“Not particularly,” John mumbles, forcing himself to smile back. “But would you care for a drink?”

 

*******

John does end up spending what feels like hours talking about trials and tribulations of living with a certified genius who has survival skills of a three-year-old. Mary Morstan, after many years of working as a caregiver, can sympathise, but doesn’t fail to mention strategically how important it is to discriminate between tasks the patient is genuinely unable and just unwilling to perform.

‘A drink’ turns into dinner, which turns into escorting Mary home, coming up ‘for coffee’ and spending her subsequent day off together. By the time John finally manages to sneak back into the hospital past Mike Stamford’s surprisingly watchful eye, Sherlock has been transferred to a rehabilitation facility, which must be Mycroft Holmes’ idea of a joke, as the rehab in question is, apparently, located is Swiss Alpes and only accessible by helicopter. After sixteen increasingly weird e-mails John considers trying to visit anyway, but Mary reminds him that such patients are isolated for a reason, and Sherlock in particular clearly doesn’t need his strive for attention fed. He takes Mary for a long weekend at a nearby resort instead, knowing Sherlock will find a way to get to him if it is truly necessary, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, after one more weird e-mail about helping Lestrade dig up a grave under Mycroft’s supervision (which John chooses to interpret as his intention to accept Mycroft’s help now that he’s got some cold cases to occupy his time) Sherlock finally stops pestering him and can, hopefully, concentrate on feeling better.  

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

*******

John wakes up to a mailbox overflown with notifications from his blog, his most rabid readers arguing over unnecessarily detailed article in a local Swiss newspaper: the famous British ‘Net ‘Tec’ perished in an unfortunate accident in the mountains: tried to sneak away from the accursed impenetrable rehab facility in the middle of the night, John reads between the lines, where the scoop-seeking journalist is unsubtly implying ‘suicide’.

The body that is finally retrieved from the bottom of Reichenbach Falls barely looks human, let alone identifiable, and for a while John hopes that there has been some mistake, but Molly, when he finally gathers the courage to confront her in the Bart’s, assures him that the identity has been properly confirmed.

 

*******

The funeral is a very quiet and a very no-nonsense affaire mostly attended by people who only knew Sherlock online. At least, most of them give their condolences to John and don’t seem to recognize Mycroft, who is standing a few steps away being constantly berated by an elderly woman who looks remarkably like Sherlock and must, therefore, be their ‘Mummy”.

“Why do you always have to drag the family into your ridiculous scheming?” she concludes dramatically, and then gets in a car and drives away without waiting for an answer. Mycroft stares after her with nothing but cold politeness reflected on his face: no pain, no regret, no trace of sleepless nights.

John doesn’t remember letting his body stride up to take his turn screaming at Mycroft: for always watching except when he is not, for sending Sherlock away from his friends’ support when he needed it the most and for generally being an unfeeling reptile. In fact, he doesn’t truly realise what he is doing until Greg Lestrade, whom John hasn’t even noticed beyond initial recognition, takes a step forward form where he has been standing silently by Mycroft’s side and swiftly punches him (John, not Mycroft) right in the nose. As two muscled men in boring black suits appear out of nowhere to drag him (him, not Greg!) away, John disbelievingly watches Mycroft carefully taking the DI’s wrist: Greg clenches and unclenches his fist in a clear ‘see, no damage’ gesture, and the icy façade cracks with a ghost of a smile.

*******

******

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Moriarty as drug-induced paranoia comes from ‘The Seven-Per-Cent Solution’ novel by Nicholas Meyer, which was the first not Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes story I read.


	7. Resurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for somewhat graphic description of violence and John being a dick.  
> ***  
> And my sincerest apologies to fellow ‘Les Miserables’ lovers. I know, I know, Mycroft’s apparent disgust is one of the things that keep me from properly enjoying a number of otherwise wonderful fics, but I didn’t want to annoy the fans of some other musical without the excuse of it being canon :-(

*****

******

*******

 

John’s decision to propose is more logical than passionate. Deep down he feels he should be more excited, but, in truth, very little excites him after Sherlock’s death, and Mary has been supporting him through the unending grey stripe of his life, so it seems a proper thing to do.

The menacingly non-descript car rolls by just as he is about to enter the jewelry store, and John’s first instinct is to loudly curse Mycroft, who has no business kidnapping him now that Sherlock is – not; but the problem with Mycroft's preferred method of communication is that in that case John would be the one yelling at a surveillance camera, and Mycroft won’t even be nearby to feel embarrassed about it. So John gets in.

This time the interior of the car lacks Mycroft’s gorgeous assistant, but is equipped with a particularly creepy driver, who doesn’t seem too keen on maintaining oppressive silence, like most Mycroft’s employees do, and instead won’t stop dropping weird double-edged hints on what married life might have in store for John.

As they stop in front of not the usual empty storage unit, but a particularly dirty abandoned building, the driver follows him inside, and, just as John starts to get suspicious, suddenly transforms into a different person altogether. Just for a moment, and then he is back to the cartoonish combination of terrible posture, and bulldog’s jaw, and huge glasses, and fake moustache, but the simultaneously too high and to raspy voice still holds unmistakably Sherlockian intonations as the apparently-not-so-dead Consulting Detective breaks into a ridiculous story of how those weird e-mails about Mycroft getting morbidly obese and a corps bride rising from her grave to punish her offenders were meant to convey that Mycroft’s ever-growing influence made him a target of numerous assassination attempts, thus leading Sherlock to stage his own death in order to wash the culprit out. The worst thing is, when put this way, the story doesn’t sound all that stupid, which only serves to make John angrier. So he punches the smug bastard. And then again, for good measure.

And then he can’t seem to stop hitting Sherlock, even if the Detective, for all his talk about being trained in some non-existent self-defense technique, doesn’t seem to be able to offer much resistance and goes down pretty quickly.

*******

John’s mind is so caught in a chance to finally release all his pent-up frustration, he doesn’t register the door behind his back opening with a bang. He doesn’t even register the piece of polished wood hook up around his ankle to drag him off Sherlock; and only as he feels the unmistakable metal prick at his neck John catches himself randomly thinking that the umbrella is not just for show, after all.

He looses a few moments trying to take the tranquilizing dart out, which doesn’t prove all that useful, as the partial dose he does receive still leaves him unable to move and only vaguely conscious to watch Mycroft sit his brother on a conveniently large piece of rabble and start fussing around him with a car first-aid kit.

“What are you even doing here? My timing was perfect, the second act has only just begun, and Lestrade – ‘

“ – has graciously offered to accompany Mummy in my stead.”

“Aw! Has he suddenly acquired taste for dead French singing revolutionaries?”

“No, but he has always possessed an enviable ability to sleep through even the most boisterous score. By the way, I now own him a pass to Wembley box the current Sports Minister thankfully almost never uses. And you are cross-referencing all the documents he needs for his report on Wednesday, – and if you ‘accidentally’ miss anything, I’m telling Mummy you are no longer out of communication range, and could, in fact, use a quiet place to live out of public eye for the next eighteen months.”

“Eighteen months?”

“Stop fidgeting, Sherlock, you don’t know what has been on that floor,” Mycroft snaps, pushing his brother back into sitting position and producing a fresh antiseptic swab to replace the one Sherlock’s outburst has caused him to drop.

“Will you really make me stay dead for two years?”

“We can’t have Eustace’s lawyers questioning the legality of you conducting an investigation under false identity while being officially dead. And his name needs to be thoroughly dragged through the mud, so we can’t have your miraculous resurrection steal the thunder.”

“But – two years?”

“Gregory’s plan would have put you in prison for six months, you could have walked free in a couple of weeks. Going the long way was solely your choice.”

“But – I was sure John would come with me. You told me he won’t leave me if I keep things interesting.”

“I said he would leave you as soon as you stopped providing enough sustenance for his adrenaline addiction, it’s not exactly the same thing,” Mycroft murmurs, carefully applying one last butterfly bandage to the biggest cut John has left on the younger Holmes’ face. “Plus, Gregory told you John’s perceived desire for normality would win over his actual need of excitement, and, as far as matters that defy logic are concerned, he is usually right. Come on, brother mine, let’s get you home.”

As Mycroft gracefully bends down to pick up the discarded dart, apparently unconcerned their conversation could have been overheard, John has just enough time to wonder who the mysterious Gregory is before the infamous umbrella’s handle connecting to his skull renders him truly unconscious.

*******

******

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I spent two days trying to work an actual case into the chapter before realising season 3 doesn’t contain any proper cases.  
> ***  
> Only one chapter left, but it also has some things I’d like to rewrite, so no idea how soon I can do it.


	8. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: John’s still a dick; Mary is VERY bad; Major Sholto is ACD-Canon-based and not at all Watson’s old army friend who has no business using the name when he is from a different story altogether.

*****

******

*******

John is seething as he storms out of Baker Street, but of course the Holmes’ fucking ancestral home is in the middle of fucking nowhere. And of course it’s fucking old and confusing, with an actual butler to open the front door and coolly inform him that "Master Sherlock is in the Green Room”; and of course getting to the Green Room requires climbing up and down so many stairs that when he finally almost falls through the door, it is not exactly for show. Anyway, the effect is totally lost on Sherlock, who is wearing a headset and staring at three laptops simultaneously: it takes him over a minute to move the headphone off one ear and press the button to probably switch off the microphone, never turning away from the screens.

“What are you watching?” John can’t help blurting out.

“An exceedingly boring trade negotiation that two double agents are supposed to use as a cover-up for their meeting. Mycroft went as an extra interpreter, but the real interpreter managed to get herself arrested, so Mycroft is stuck in the boot actually translating, Lestrade still has to pretend to be on security detail, and I’m now stuck with surveillance.”

“Why would Greg pretend to be a bodyguard?”

“Because someone has to be in position to interfere when all hell inevitably breaks loose. And because the second interpreter is not entitled to a security detail, and Mycroft is not allowed out of the country on his own since his helicopter went down over Amazonian jungle the third or the fourth ‘actual really honestly very last time’ he had to do ‘legwork’, and it took us nearly two weeks to track him down. But I doubt you came all this way to talk about the finer points of my brother’s career.”

John shakes his head and blinks rapidly, desperately trying to snatch back the line of thought he has somehow completely lost: “He – I – You have to call him off!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I mean, I might have been unnecessarily harsh to you the time we – you – kidnapped me!” John keeps rambling, as is Sherlock hasn’t spoken at all, “– but you could have, I don’t know, punch me back. Or, better yet, talk to me like a normal human being, instead of playing your ridiculous spy games and then sic your omnipotent brother on me when I fail to comply!”

Sherlock finally gives him a quick once-over before returning his full attention to the laptops:

“I see. But I assure you none of your recent mishaps are Mycroft’s doing.”

“Who else could get me fired?”

“For no reason at all?”

“I might have missed a couple of days for personal reasons. It was never a problem when you came to drag me away.”

“That’s because when I ‘came drag you away’, someone would call Miloš.”

“Who the hell is Milosh?”

“Someone who wouldn’t mind having your job but can’t, because he once did Mycroft a favor that left him unable to legally immigrate to the UK.”

“What, Mycroft found a random immigrant to cover my shifts?”

‘Not random. He speaks proper English, he’s got a medical degree and he is even blond. Or did you think Sarah tolerated you turning up at work at your leisure for the sake of sex you never got to have?”

“All right, I suppose that makes sense. But why doesn’t my card work?” John demands, producing the offending item from his wallet to empathize the point.

“This one? You seem to have forgotten, – but so have I, so it’s not that surprising, – that that’s actually my card. So it can only be used to pay for pre-approved items, mostly food, – for obvious reasons.”

“What rea – ridiculous. You can’t use a credit card to buy drugs!”

“No, but I can buy seemingly harmless ingredients to make drugs. Or something poisonous. Or explosive. Or pay for my classmate’s plane tickets to the USA because I wasn’t really listening what he was complaining about. Twice.”

“Fine, but what about Baker Street?”

“Again, I have no idea what you mean.”

“Mrs. Hudson rented out my flat with hardly any warning.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it is, in fact, Mrs. Hudson, and not you, who owns №221b. And you were, essentially, living elsewhere.”

“But I paid the rent!”

“No, John. You were paying half of the special price she had been prepared to offer me – years ago. Today she can easily get 20 or even 30 per cent more, and now then, judging by how Carmichael’s trial is going, I might have to say ‘dead’ even longer than expected, it would be unfair to expect her to stick to that bargain. Anyway, as Mycroft never fails to remind me, my trust fund is substantial, but not unlimited, and it is not wise to indefinitely maintain a dwelling in London ‘just in case’ when I have a perfectly serviceable house at my disposal.”

“He wants you to stay in Sussex? Indefinitely? And you agreed?”

“Why not? It’s big enough and secluded enough to accommodate some of the long-term projects I’ve been postponing; Lestrade is due for a promotion, and if they give his job to someone like Donovan, my ‘consulting’ days are as good as over, and, as soon as the news of my miraculous resurrection hits the internet, it is bound to attract loads of fake clients with ridiculous made-up cases who only want to gawp. At least, if they agree to come all the way here, I can be relatively sure they truly need my help. Although, that might not actually be a problem, as my blogger has made it loud and clear he doesn’t care about my freaky adventures and would rather build a normal family with a normal wife – “

“Mary left me!” John shouted. “Right after I announced my intention to choose normal life over you in front of your brother. Are you saying that too is not his fault?”

“Of course not. If anything, it’s mine.”

“What? What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. But after six month with no word from a solicitor she must have realised that you are not, after all, inheriting my hypothetic fortune, – not that you would have gotten much, anyway.”

“What are you – I’ve never even – “

“You – of course not. Miss Morstan, on the other hand, has a long and suspicious history of trying to get her hands on a nice fat inheritance. After completing her studies she didn’t immediately seek employment, but rather moved in with a Ms. Forrester, an elderly aunt who, admittedly, was in need of nearly constant care. The old lady eventually died of her illness while her nurse stepped out to run an errand. There was very little investigation, and Mary did inherit a once substantial fortune, severely depleted by medical bills. In the following years Miss Morstan was fired from several nursery homes for paying too much attention to patients who appeared wealthy and lonely, and eventually started working for an ex-Major John Sholto, who had been living a very solitary life after, as it turned out, receiving a substantial bribe from a dangerous criminal and failing to meet his end of the bargain. As he felt his health failing, he decided to forgo caution and reunite with his twin sons. For whatever reason, only one of them decided to join their father immediately and was afterwards killed along with the old Major who had finally been tracked down by his nemesis. The perpetrator, a Johnathan Small, died trying to get away from the police, so they never found out who exactly tipped him of, but when the remaining twin was questioned, he pointed out that the killer didn’t appear right away, but only after Bartholomew Sholto decided to let go of his father’s nurse, whose behavior he deemed inappropriate.”

“What are you implying?” John exclaimed indignantly, “That’s a fat load of crap, and, wait, did your brother have my girlfriend investigated?”

“Not Mycroft, Lestrade. She did try to sneak an authorized person into my ward, and he is a big fan of procedure. Should have seen what happened to the doctor who let my dealer visit me in hospital.”

“I’m not your dealer!”

“Well, Vic didn’t exactly introduce himself as one too, said he was my boyfriend the family didn’t approve of. Didn’t even have any drugs on him, either. He genuinely wanted to see if I was getting better and, therefore, ready to resume our shared, erm, activities. As for Mary, you met around the time she started to exploit the new hunting ground of long-term patients and their distraught relatives. Lestrade and Mike have been trying to catch her at anything substantial, but she’s been cautious. Hopefully, with you out of the picture she’ll have to step up her game: agent Adair is getting too sick to sign anything legally-binding, and I doubt even Mycroft knows more than one former operative who is dying of cancer and willing to spend his last months on an undercover mission.”

“Greg has been trying to arrest Mary? Why didn’t he warn me? I thought he was my friend. He was always nice to me, at least before you pulled your ridiculous stunt and made everything complicated.”

“Lestrade is nice to everyone unless a direct confrontation is required. That’s what allows him to successfully navigate the murky waters of politics. But, no, he’s never been your biggest fan.”

“And why is that?” John inquires provocatively, anticipating one of Sherlock’s ‘bit-not-good’ moments.

“Because you encourage my destructive behavior and flaunter your dysfunctional relationship with Harry as high standard of sibling interaction, both of which upset Mycroft. And you call him Greg.”

“His name IS Greg, Sherlock.”

“No, John. His name is Gregory. He hates to have it shortened, and therefore generally doesn’t invite people to call him by his first name, which you for some reason decided you were entitled to do, even though he keeps calling you ‘Doctor Watson’. As the matter of fact –”

Sherlock suddenly makes a ‘Wait a moment’ sign with one hand and reaches to unmute the microphone with the other:

“Lestrade, listen, it’s not one of the delegates, it’s the waiter. Dyed hair, very new uniform. Yes, the one who has been carrying a half-empty water bottle around for fifteen minutes without offering anyone a drink. I know, but he won’t do anything if he thinks you might be watching. No, just stand closer to the column, it won’t severely compromise your angle, but will keep you out of his line of sight. Yes, that should do it,” Sherlock nods and leans back more comfortably, though his eyes are still glued to the screens.

“Well, I suppose you are in need of a place to stay?”

“You would do that?” John inquires incredulously. “After – everything that has happened?”

“Why not? It’s really boring here most of the time, and Mycroft made me brush up on self-defense, so I sort of wouldn’t mind a rematch. Of course, they,” Sherlock points at the laptops with his chin, “will make a fuss, but the closing session is not until Friday morning, and Mycroft will have to attend, so they’ll probably stay throughout the weekend; and if we don’t do anything truly atrocious, none of Mycroft’s spies will dare disturb him on their anniversary –“

“Anniversary of what? Their ‘Bring-Sherlock-To-Heel’ pact?”

“No, that one’s in in April.”

John feels a burst of long-buried anger flare to life:

“You can’t remember if I have plans for the evening, but you didn’t ‘delete’ that?”

“If I still had to hear about your plans every time someone mentions higher education, dropping out, bright futures and epic failures after ten years, I’m sure I would eventually memorise them. As it is, I have no idea what the occasion is, I simply saw Mycroft pack those ridiculous jeans he believes make him look dashingly casual. But as one or both of them inevitably has to work on any official holiday, they find something to celebrate every time they end up together in a marginally romantic location, and since Lestrade is fond of the sea and Mycroft is fond of sea food –“

“You make them sound like an old married couple,” John scoffs.

“Oh, they are not married,” Sherlock replies, and John is about to explain that he didn’t mean it literally, and what a figure of speech is, when the detective continues:

“– unless you count an obscure spiritual leader dragged to an international peace conference to represent traditional values of her people once telling them they shared a soul. Mycroft supposedly doesn’t need any extra paperwork attached to his name, but Mummy still believes they opted out of official ceremony to spite her.”

John opens his mouth to remark that the idea of the British Government, his Highly-Functional Sociopath of a brother or even the New-Scotland-Yard’s Finest acknowledging the concept of soulmates is hilarious, yet the notion of ‘figure of speech’ still stands, but Sherlock, apparently, is not done talking:

“Nevertheless, they do wear rings, live together and are as free with their displays of affection as my brother’s reptilian nature would allow, so I don’t understand why you are looking quite that surprised. Then again, I’ve always said that you, John, have the unfortunate tendency to see but not observe.”

 

********

**END**

******

*****

_This chapter, and, therefore, this entire fic, started as a half-assed attempt to fill my own[prompt](https://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260652485). Now it doesn’t even remotely qualify, and I still hope someone will do it properly. _  
_As the matter of fact, if someone wants to incorporate any of my tiny scenes into a longer, more detailed fic, I’ll be very glad._


End file.
